If These Walls
by Leelee
Summary: Response to a mailing list challenge. There is character death and foul language.


This was written for a challenge on a mailing list a while back: Write a Labyrinth story where Sarah dies. I was reading "Pagan Babies" by Elmore Leonard at the time, and this is written in a style much like his. (Good book, that. I recommend it to anyone who enjoys mystery and suspense.) This has been taken different ways by different people. Some say "Eww!" and some say "Hilarious!" I'll let you decide for yourself.  
  
If These Walls  
  
It was a long, white hallway. The ceiling lights kept flickering on and off. His footsteps echoed as he made his way to the last door on the right.   
  
The interrogation room.   
  
He stepped inside, just another man in a suit, another pain in the ass, there to annoy the residents.   
  
A woman sat at the table. Long brown hair tied back, big green eyes flat and expressionless, as she ignored the man sitting down in front of her. The table between them was empty except for an ashtray and a pack of cigarettes.   
  
The woman took drag after drag, didn't say a word.   
  
He cleared his throat, but she didn't look up.   
  
"My name is Mr. King. I have a few questions to ask you."   
  
"Fuck you."   
  
"Pardon me?" He started, his thin eyebrows jumping.   
  
"You assholes always have a few questions." Another drag on the cigarette. "Same old song, but I'm not in the mood to dance today." She smiled. She was beautiful, but chills ran down his spine. "Try me tomorrow after I've had my 'happy pills.'" Another drag, and the smile disappeared.   
  
"Ahem. Yes, well, I'm here to inquire about -"   
  
"What's your name?"   
  
"Excuse me?"   
  
"Name. Do you have one?" She glared, leaned back in her chair, laid an arm across her stomach. "Most people do."   
  
"You can call me Mr. King."   
  
"Fuck that. What's your first name?"   
  
He narrowed his eyes. This would take longer than expected. "My first name is Jareth, but I'd prefer that you -"   
  
"Fuckin' weird name if you ask me."   
  
"I didn't. I've come here to ask you about a friend of yours. I've been looking for her for a few years now, and have come up rather empty-handed."   
  
"I ain't got many friends, but you'll still have to be more specific." She got a cigarette out of the pack on the table and pulled a lighter out of her shirt pocket, lit it, took a couple drags.   
  
"Sarah Williams," he said after a pause.   
  
"Her? Damn. She's dead."   
  
"What?"   
  
She gave him a cold stare.   
  
"How long has she been -"   
  
"Five years, seven, almost eight months. Ask me something else."   
  
He paused again, cleared his throat. "Why are you here?"   
  
"Murder." The cigarette was halfway gone.   
  
"May I ask who?"   
  
A long drag, this time. "Most women in this prison, for murder, whacked either their husband or their boyfriend."   
  
"Ah. So how did Sarah die?"   
  
"You really wanna know?"   
  
He swallowed, shifted in his chair. "I've been searching for her for years now."   
  
"She owe you money?"   
  
"Nothing like that."   
  
"She owe you a good fuckin', then?" A mischievous smile, more chills down his spine.   
  
"No. We were," he paused, searching, "friends, not lovers."   
  
"Oh. Yeah." She rubbed out the rest of the cigarette. "Okay, I'll tell you then. Some sicko hacked off her legs, arms, and head, and mailed them to her family. Pretty fuckin' gross, right?" Pulled out and lit another cigarette. "That ain't the worst part."   
  
"No?"   
  
"Her kid brother opened the packages. Musta been ten, twelve years old then. Poor little fucker."   
  
"Just a child," he trailed off, looked at the worn surface of the table, rubbed a finger over a coffee mug stain. "Go on."   
  
"There ain't much more to tell."   
  
"What was your relationship with her, miss?"   
  
"We were friends, pals, buds in college and after. We had fights, though, started driftin' apart. Dust in the wind, all that."   
  
"So you knew her fairly well?"   
  
Another cigarette gone, joined the others in the ashtray. "You could say that."   
  
"Was she happy?" He seemed almost hopeful, his voice wistful, regretful.   
  
"Fuck no, she wasn't." His face fell. "She was in some real fuckin' pain, you know."   
  
When he didn't say anything, she kept going. "You see, she didn't die right away, you know."   
  
He swallowed, paled.   
  
"She stayed alive for about two hours after her legs were cut off. About twenty minutes after she lost her left arm." She picked up the cigarette box, shook it, threw it on the ground, the white box empty. "It wasn't until I cut off her right arm that she finally fuckin' died, and stopped fuckin' screamin'." That smile again, and he knew why he was so chilled. "I made a mistake, I admit it.   
  
"I should have cut off her head first." 


End file.
